


When Saints Die, the World Stops Turning

by dodds



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Avengers Movies RPF
Genre: M/M, self mutilation warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodds/pseuds/dodds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The strong person had died and mutated heartbroken, the friend had become an enemy and the mourning had taken a turn to depression. He was far gone already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Saints Die, the World Stops Turning

**Author's Note:**

> Intended to be longer, but I didn't want to drag it.

Tom stared out of the window, not really knowing what to do. The bottle of wine lied shattered at his feet. Red wine dripped like blood from the balcony and formed a puddle on the tiles beneath the swimming pool. Through the open window he could hear the steps crack, the ghosts of memories walking up the stairs towards the bedroom you slept in for one week. After that one week you had already moved into the main bedroom with Chris, the one you had tossed  a coin for in the beginning.

 

But the room was empty, the stairs abandoned and the coin long spend on yet another bottle of wine. He no longer had a chance of getting joined by the other for a hug on the balcony, or a pull inside for something supposed to be lazy kissing and cuddling but mostly ended up one of them falling asleep on the other and drooling over his face.

 

The thought made him chuckle, but mid-chuckle it turned into another sob and the tears streamed over his face again. His fist slams down on the stone railing, sending a flaming pain up his fingers through his arms and stopping precisely at his heart and he doesn’t let the shortest and softest of curses roll of his tongue. The pain is deserved and it doesn’t hurt all that much. He bend down and let his fingers wrap themselves around a random, long piece of glass on the balcony floor. The piece was drowned in the red wine that dripped on his wrists like lost blood drops as he held it just above his wrist.

 

The glass felt warm and on wet on his wrist, like a lover’s kiss. But the love was long lost, the joy of the kiss diminished in madness. The man wasn’t no longer you he was portrayed to be. How he was supposed to be – a friend to the others, a mourning friend and someone who could live on past it. The strong person had died and mutated into heartbroken, the friend had become an enemy and the mourning had taken a turn to depression. He was far gone already. The comforting, the soothing, he didn’t give was the one he received but never accepted. Never wanted.

 

The slash was quickly and a lot less painful than he at first expected. Some of the blood spat up at he turned his wrist slightly, splashing onto his thin frame. The frame of an anorexic that he had developed after refusing to eat for a week after Chris’ death.  Wine and blood slid down his shirt, wetting the boxers.

 

He kept staring at it, watching the blood seep out of the cut with an irregular speed. It fascinated him in a way that also freaked him out slightly but of all things, he didn’t worry about his sanity. The fact that he craved physical pain to get rid of the mental scarring. It felt needed, the pain, like everything was going to flow out with the blood.

 

It didn’t flow out and it got worse. The blood clotting made his head spin. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins, trying to find its way into open air but it kept being blocked by the clotting. It itched a bit but he didn’t even think of scratching it. Already fallen onto the ground just before, he crawled through the glass doors, not avoiding the shattered glass all over the place.

 

The way to the bathroom seemed to take him ages and he didn’t even make it completely but just sank down next to the bed, blindly grabbing painkillers from the nightstand. He washed them down with a half empty of bottle of wine he found standing just beside the bed.

 

Ready to pass out, the last thing one wants to hear is the door opening like in some cliché romantic film were everyone survives. Everyone had died long ago and no one wandered around on earth alive. All lost souls wandered lost after the saint had died in the company of sinners. The press jumping on it, everyone gossiping, no one yet to trust. No one, not even the ones one would consider to be friends.

 

Heavy footsteps on the stairs but he didn’t look up as the door opened with a crack. No words were spoken, no words were needed to be spoken. Benedict’s arm felt heavy and muscular as the man draped it over the anorexic’s shoulder. Leaning in to Benedict’s touch, Tom felt the tears welling up again. The numbness. The pain. Everything was there and nothing wanted to leave. And though everything had to leave before the numbness and the pain could leave, something also wanted to keep it there. To keep the memory Chris fresh in mind no matter what happened.

 

He almost crawled into Benedict’s lap, smearing blood and wine all over his friend’s clothes but it was in the back of both’s minds. There were always much more important things than clothes.

 

It didn’t take him long, but after a while, Tom drifted off into a very restless sleep with Chris and the ghosts of the stairs haunting him through the house, towards the balcony. And he always jumped. _Always._ With that one word he would never slip off his tongue in real life anymore.

 

“Chris.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know what razors do when you cut in different ways. This is not meant to be very real, really realistic. It's fiction ;D


End file.
